


falling is not the dangerous part (it's the touching that scares me)

by Leelee_is_me



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Car Wrecks, Cussing, Friendship, I guess there's character development for Jim, Jim and Bones are bros, Jim's kind of a mess in this whole thing, M/M, again sorry babies, also VERY brief mentions of sex, also the Jim/Spock thing is kinda last minute okay, au-ish, brief mentions of suicide and death, but no actual descriptions, not there yet, okay done now, so there's no smooching or whatever, sorry babies, who by the way is the closet genius I always see him as
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-07 12:59:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1120099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leelee_is_me/pseuds/Leelee_is_me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim refuses to join the Academy, despite the insistence of the people closest to him. But when Jim drives his bike straight off a cliff and stays in a coma for four months, everything changes. He tries to cope because this is his final chance to get things right. This is the aftermath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	falling is not the dangerous part (it's the touching that scares me)

**Author's Note:**

> So I've decided to stop lurking around on AO3 and finally post a story here. I've been toying around with this story for a while and decided to stop wimping out and to just upload it already.
> 
> The story's AU-ish, with a backstory that might be later explained in another fic. I'm not exactly sure yet.
> 
> Jim just basically gets his shit together. That's the story.
> 
> The story's unbeta'd, and so any mistakes seen are my own. I don't own Star Trek or any of the characters.

Jim knows he’s made a big fucking mistake as soon as he feels his bike tip just this side of too much going around that last turn. He knows no amount of overcompensation can fix the gigantic mess he’s about to find himself in. His headlights illuminate the sparkling yellow signs, alerting him much too late that the road suddenly veers right rather than the straight and narrow he thought he was on.

For a moment, the world jerks sideways and mutes deafeningly, the drone of his motorcycle far enough away that he can hear the cicadas buzzing and the whistle of the muggy air and admire the stars through his tinted helmet.

He hits the ground with his eyes open and he hits it _hard._

  


He dreams of motorcycles. Of sun chapped leather squeezed between his thighs, the purr a comforting reminder that _he's in control, no one can stop him from turning left or right or from driving straight off this cliff._

Jim dreams of his father while riding. (It can feel like that, sometimes: dreaming.) Sometimes the vibrations will leap up into his heart and manage to soothe his racing mind, but –

Sometimes the thrum is merely calming and doesn't erase his thoughts at all, and he thinks of his father.

Whether he'd approve of what he's done (and Jim’s done some pretty awful things), whether his decisions would have made him proud or disappointed and if that even _matters_. If people will always see him as George's son, as the repeat offender, as the sarcastic split-lipped nobody going nowhere except a straight-shot to the grave.

He'd rather just twist his wrist savagely and zip around the traffic to the deserted roads where he can just gun the engine and then force his mind to shut the fuck up. It's easier that way. Less complicated and afterwards he doesn't exactly feel better, but calmer. Like he avoided the storm without ever actually getting wet.

But this storm chases him, even when he's asleep.

  


Jim is told that he was in the coma for three months and twenty nine days. Summer is over and the first frost is just starting to settle on the ground when he opens his eyes and is able to fully understand what is going on around him.

(this takes him a few times to get right)

The first thing he feels is the ache behind his eyes and the leathery feel of his lips (and that he really, _really_ needs a shave.)

Nurses flutter in and out of his room. Jim can only watch. He can’t move _at all_. At first Jim panics, but quickly realizes that panicking requires energy, which is something Jim is pretty short of at the moment. His doctor does finally walk in and up to his bed, studying him intently for a minute before abruptly telling him he's a goddamn idiot and he's lucky to be alive and have all his limbs and not to mention his memory intact, but Jim just wants to laugh at her because if he's known to be anything at all, it's lucky.

(he’s run through his nine lives a long time ago though so he’s wondering when the grave will tap on his door to collect the debt)

Also. His chest hurts too bad for any sort of laugh, so he settles on a twisted grimace. The doctor leaves with a comment of a few sessions of physical therapy and they'll talk about a release date then.

  


He's out of the hospital soon enough, though, with a pair of sunglasses perched on his newly crooked nose and arm in a sling, his gait slowed and slightly limping. With whatever pride he has left, Jim leaves and avoids everyone's sideways glances because _bad boy Kirk is at it again._

Really. After four months in a coma, he'd think people would be a bit more relieved than they are exasperated.

He makes it all the way to the street before he realizes that he probably isn't allowed to drive right now and what the _fuck_ ever happened to his bike?

After thirty minutes of investigation (and possibly a little yelling) he's figured out that all the injuries he's suffered were no match for the total decimation that happened to his baby and he'll have to call someone to come pick him up.

_Fuck this_ , he thinks as he hails a cab. _I don’t need a goddamn babysitter._

(really he’s not surprised they let him leave alone because that hospital has seen him three times in the last year so they know he’s pretty much a hopeless case so why bother getting someone to pick him up that he’d just ditch anyways)

He tells the cabbie his address and sinks into the smelly cushions, gazing out the window at the scenery that's whipping around him and he startles when he discovers that he's getting _dizzy._

That's when the panic starts, the sudden dread that maybe the wreck actually was bad. Because he can get another bike that's no big deal (he’s mastered hot-wiring everything from a bike to a bulldozer) but if that head dive off a fucking _cliff into a forest of trees_ scrambled wires he needed in order to drive hard and fast then he has a major fucking problem.

Jim closes his eyes and breathes deep (even though it hurts) and just generally tries to will his adrenaline spike down.

He somehow makes it to his apartment without a total mental breakdown and discovers dead flowers and teddy bears and rather suspicious looking chocolates attached to cards on the ground in front of his door. (Jim realizes he doesn't know enough people that actually like him to account for all the items in front of him, which amounts to, about, seven things.)

They’re a welcome distraction, he won’t lie. He opens his door and immediately almost kills himself on the haphazard piles of mail on his floor which shouldn't surprise him because _four months of mail is a fuckton._

Jim slides off his sunglasses as he hits the lights and none come on. He swears, walking into the kitchen to test the tap –

Yep, that too.

_Fuck._

Jim walks into his living room, opens his blinds, and puts his sunglasses back on. He collapses on his couch, inhaling the stale air of an uninhabited apartment and reveling in the silence, the calm after the harried hospital visits that always leave him smelling sterile and a little bit more claustrophobic than he was before. He opens his eyes (when did he close them?) and picks up his (recharged) cell.

He has some calls to make.

  


His electricity and water eventually do come back on, after paying the appropriate bills.

Jim also showers because after four months of sponge showers, he's pretty fucking gross smelling. Showering helps him calm his mind, helps him process the fact that he's just missed four months of his life because of a stupid mistake made in the heat of the moment.

(maybe they were right about him)

  


Even after all this time, he still feels the tender spots where the worst of the bruising was, can see thin white scars around his bicep (a tree that splintered under the weight of him and his bike) and the puckered lines on his stomach (where he slid across some rocks).

His arm aches but apparently it was never broken, just fractured, which is supposedly a good thing but not enough of a good thing that it's totally healed now. So it aches.

Jim glances up at the mirror in front of him, face scruffy again after the initial shave he got when he woke up, towel wrapped around his waist, analyzing the new additions to his constellations of scars.

He still has problems grasping that he went under black and blue but woke up nearly healed; he feels the same as he did four months ago, barely hanging onto that cliff of panic and fear, the adrenaline overpowering every single thought. Even after the hospital, he still feels like he’s on that edge. His insides haven’t had the chance to heal as his outside has: Jim feels raw.

He walks into his bedroom just as his phone rings. He grunts into the speaker while running a towel through his hair (it's longer than he's ever let it, brushing against his eyebrows).

“That's a nice way to greet the friend who paid for your apartment, asshole,” an annoyed voice huffs through the receiver.

Jim stops, the towel clutched in his right hand. “Bones?”

“Who else?”

Water drips into Jim’s eyes. “You paid my rent?”

“It's not like anyone else would. You owe me so much booze.”

Jim closes his eyes, his pounding headache finally subsiding just enough for him to think straight for the first time since he walked into his apartment. “Pizza and beer?”

He can hear the grin through the phone. “I'll be there in ten.”

 

Jim walks around in a hole-ridden pair of sweats and the ugly yellow socks the hospital hands out like candy with the grippies on the bottom. He hadn’t even thought about what happened to his apartment after four fucking months until Bones mentioned it. Not during the weeks of rehabilitation or anything.

He calls the pizza place to distract him from panicking from his lapse in thought - _is this just like the dizziness or is he mentally damaged now or something_ \- and orders their usual (Hawaiian for him and this disgusting mess of anchovies and onions for Bones). Jim pops open a beer for himself when he rediscovers the pile of wilted flowers and chocolate that he never dealt with. He sits on one of his bar stools with a sigh and begins pulling dead flowers from the attached cards. Two are from Bones, both equally brusque and satisfactorily mushy from the cranky doctor. A couple are from his coworkers at that seedy bar he works at. There’s even a group card from Uhura, Chekov, Sulu, and Scotty _(why does that make his stomach all warm it’s just a group card it doesn’t even matter much)_ , all with corny quotes and (possibly) heartfelt messages, and the last one...

An unimpressive card from Spock.

Jim's stomach knots at that _why should he even care it's just him being considerate and polite it doesn't mean a goddamn thing_. He reads the card; no pithy quote, no mention of the cover (a boring vase of flowers with a thermometer in the corner) just _Hope to see you healthy soon._ He chews his bottom lip, trying to dissect the single sentence in any other way than what he’s imaging right now. _Vulcans don’t lie_ , he thinks forcefully at the ‘hope’, _but they still don’t feel._

His stomach never quite settles.

  


(really this sick crush on the one person he can never have is getting ridiculous he needs to do something about it; but even four months in a coma didn’t erase the flutters)

  


Bones really does care about him no matter how he may talk or act around Jim. It's evident in the way he shoves open the door before Jim can even get there (he always forgets to lock the damn thing) spewing insults, letting his hands rove all over Jim's body, eyes flashing when Jim winces or grunts but otherwise, he keeps up his verbal abuse throughout the impromptu examination. Jim doesn’t try to stop him because he’s still pretty tired from everything going on, but he also has this ritual down by heart. He eyes Jim's sunglasses suspiciously but doesn’t question them. When he finally deigns that Jim won't keel over dead at this moment, Bones steps back and walks over to the sofa, switching his spiel to one about being _damn hungry_ and _where's the goddamn promised booze._

But even he can't hide the relief shining in his eyes, no matter how hard he may try.

After their third beer and fourth slice of pizza, the banter lulls into a quiet calm that Jim knows is Bones's way of prodding the fuck out of Jim (because he can’t stand absolute silence, Jim will (has) belted out _Ava Maria_ rather than sit in a quiet room).

“What?” he asks, fingering his damp bottle.

“We were all worried.”

“I wasn’t going to die, if that’s what you’re implying,” Jim says automatically (81% chance but a little white lie never hurt anyone).

“That's a crock of shit, Jim, and you know better than to lie to me.”

(except Bones he always knows)

Jim glares over the rim of his bottle, agitated and so very not wanting to talk about this right now. “It's not like I planned on going out and wrecking my damn bike.”

“Forget your damn bike! Do you ever think about what wrecking your bike does to _you_?” he yells when he stands up and waves his arms around. Bones sighs and doesn’t continue. He sits back down instead and pinches his nose and Jim knows this look _goddammit_ it's the one he gets before Bones says something that makes complete sense, and Jim is not in the business of 'sense' right now; he's in the business of booze and that really disgusting pizza that Bones likes that he always manages to steal at least one piece of. And maybe a few thoughts stray to the Vulcan but hey who's counting. It’s not like anyone can hear his pathetic longing besides himself so he’s all good.

Also, Bones is talking but Jim isn't listening.

“-you can't be so fucking reckless. People might hate your attitude and your bad mouth, but you’re not a bad guy overall and for some reason people actually like you. So don't be so careless about their feelings.” _My feelings_ , he implies.

“Whatever, man, it's over. I'm alive and my bike's totaled. I won't be riding again for a while.” _That's a lie Jim stop it._

Bones eyes him, recognizing the blatant lie, but they’ve been down this road too many times and he’s had enough with the parenting for one night. So Bones lets up, leaning back and finishing his beer all in one go. “Jim, you are physically incapable of being careful. That's why you keep me around.”

Jim smiles over his beer and takes a sip to avoid answering because Bones might not like what he has to say.

_I keep you around because you're the only one who's willing to put up with me._

  


It's not like Jim enjoys hurting the few people who's ever given a damn about him. Every time he wrecks, his friends say he should never get back on a bike, that he's too reckless to be in control of a vehicle that could potentially end his life (the current standing is a solid 67%).

He smiles and nods and pretends to listen to them tell him how to run his own life, but he never actually imagines following their orders. Because Jim's been running ever since he was little and he's forgotten how to stop. He doesn’t even know if he’d want to stop. Jim’s lived like this for as long as he can remember.

He can't imagine what would happen to him if he put away his helmet and leather. He might literally explode. (which he knows is a logical impossibility but when he's riding he's not George's boy or the closet genius he's just Jim and maybe he's okay with that)

Maybe he could learn to lead a life that's not going twenty-five over the speed limit, but he'd rather keep going the road he's on until he burns right through it.

  


Jim's surprised when Spock knocks on his door a couple days after having Bones over. He opens the door wearing jeans that are way too big for him and nothing but his faded bruises on top and nearly slams the door shut in Spock’s composed face and how badly he wants to stroke his silky hair (not to mention the dorky bowl cut jesus fucking _christ_ ).

“It's good to see that your motorcycle accident hasn't left you bedridden, as I had initially feared when news spread of your crash.”

Jim closes his eyes, breathes in deep, and silently begs his brain to kick it up a few notches because if he's going to talk with Spock, he’s going to need the help.

“Can't knock me down that easily.” Jim wanders back into his apartment, idly checking to make sure he hasn't left any, like... _boxers_ out or something.

He hasn't. He's messy, but not that bad.

Jim sits down on the couch, watching Spock close his door and walk over to the armchair before perching on the edge. “So did you miss my charming smile so much that you just had to come pay me a visit?”

“I wanted to see what condition you're in to gauge the amount of time before you're able to start your schooling.”

Jim's jaw twitches and that perpetual headache returns with a vengeance. “Not that again.” Jim can hear shifting, as if Spock's settling into the chair, which means he's about to monologue, using logic and reason when Jim doesn’t want to listen to either.

“You could test out of _an entire year_ of classes from what I know of your intelligence level, perhaps even more if you really pushed yourself. You could graduate a captain, Jim. Do you know the statistical probability of this ever happening?”

(of course he knows Jim isn’t a goddamn idiot but he’s not going to tell Spock that)

"What, no pleasantries? No ‘how are you’ or ‘I’m glad you’re okay’?” Jim (tries to) joke, completely ignoring Spock. “I’ve been in a coma for four months, y'know. Did you even notice me gone?" Jim bites his lip, quelling anything else that could spill out. His skin feels tight.

Spock’s eyes darken. “Of course I noticed your absence. But you are here now and you need to decide your future. I’ve grown weary of you avoiding this request.”

Jim can't keep the agitation out of his voice, doesn't even try to. Trying to distract Spock is impossible. “I've heard this all before, Spock. And I'll give you the answer I gave you back then; that isn’t what I want.” _I don't want to spend the rest of my life never quite being good enough as him._

“You won't even explain your reasons for not wanting to attend. You should give the Academy a chance. It can present opportunities for you that you’ve never had before-”

“You can’t tell me what to do with my life! You’re not my guardian; I don’t need to hear lectures from you, I get enough of that from Bones!” Jim stands up over Spock, who gazes at him impassively; Jim never imagined yelling at him would hurt so bad. Everything’s too sharp: his anger, the lights, the curve of Spock’s jaw. He needs his sunglasses bad.

“I never said I was. And my intent was never to patronize you." Spock's eyes nearly fucking sparkle at Jim, as wide and imploring as Jim's ever seen him. "I just want what’s best for you, Jim.”

Jim tenses and walks into his kitchen, yanking open the fridge door and staring inside, as if he can make his nearly-sour milk and tubs of leftovers give him the answer to make Spock leave him the fuck alone. He sighs and only grabs a beer, walking back into his living room (he stopped offering Spock alcohol a long time ago).

As expected, Spock hasn't moved an inch. He wants to ask him _why_ he seems to care so much, but he’s afraid of the answer; afraid of the probable clinical reasons, reasons so opposite of what he wants. Jim talks steadily, despite his inner turmoil, the hot flash of anger faded to a dull ache in his back.

“Spock, you can't make me do anything. No matter how much you seem to imagine yourself as my _father_ ,” Jim spits the word out as it spears his heart, “you're not. So if you have nothing else to say, you can go ahead and leave.” Jim’s proud he got all of that out without a single curse word.

Spock's lips purse slightly – maybe 7% – and he stands up, having left no evidence on the armchair where he was sitting. Maybe intentional, perhaps not. _Which would hurt more?_

He walks over to the door and places his hand on the handle, shoulders (almost) slumped and his head turned to the floor, as if Jim's future weighs as heavy as the world on him and he's the only one who even cares about it anymore (which might actually be true, anyways). “I may not have convinced you yet, Jim, but believe me. When all else around you fails, Starfleet will still be there,” he turns around and Jim's breath stops, “and my offer will still stand.”

That night, he dreams for the first time in - months. Of stars. In his dream, they are beautiful, but when he wakes up, one thought haunts him: that they’d be more breathtaking in person.

  


Jim does nothing but sit in a catatonic state for the next three days. He doesn't sleep. Barely eats. He does a whole lot of thinking, though, mainly about that last turn.

_What was it about that last turn that made me speed up?_ Jim's reckless, but even he has a limit. James Tiberius Kirk is _not_ (probably) suicidal. If he's anything, he's afraid of that last breath, the last glance of the life around him, knowing that his is about to end.

Jim never talks about his fears with anyone else, rarely allows himself to think them. It freaks him out into a panic attack, and the only way to force anything to make sense again is to jump on his bike and ride until he’s too exhausted to think about anything. But after the coma, he feels different (not to mention _severely_ bike-less), like his skin doesn’t fit anymore, like four months under changed him on the inside but his outside is still the same and he’s _trapped_. Like maybe he’s running out of time. Like maybe this will be the last time he opens his eyes in a hospital.

He’s afraid of leaving behind an unfinished life. Of people walking over his grave, never knowing who James Kirk truly was or his goals or his aspirations, that he despises rap and carrots and thinks that it should rain all the time because the drops are so damn beautiful. He doesn't want people to remember him as the reckless boy with no future. He doesn’t want them to think he’s _just_ badboy Kirk. Because even though it’s hard to remember some days, he knows he’s more than that. That he’s _worth_ more than that.

He goes crazy just thinking about dying, regardless.

But his obsession has reached meltdown proportions. Out of all of his previous wrecks, this one bothers him the most. It's not been his most dangerous out of all of them. It's the third most dangerous, but it’s the only one that took four entire months from him. He closed his eyes and woke up a third of a year older. It bothers him.

He thinks about calling Bones but he _does_ have a job and classes to attend so that’s a no. Jim can’t think of a single thing he wants to do right now besides go hotwire a random motorcycle and just ride, maybe keep riding, until he’s out of gas or he makes it to the ocean.

The apartment gradually gets messier, take-out boxes and half-finished coffee cups everywhere. Jim feels like the walls and trash are closing in on him.

He hasn't left his apartment in ten days. He wants it really bad right now. The ocean. The spray against his face, the chill of the grey water lapping at his feet if he goes up north enough.

Today, Jim showers and shaves and forgoes the sling for his still ache-y arm, letting it rest in his hoodie's pocket. His head pounds even with his sunglasses on. His body yells at him to lie down again like he’s been doing for the past ten fucking days. He almost does, but one moment of motionless lets all his wandering thoughts creep back in and he shoves his shoes on.

He can't possibly imagine staying here for another five minutes.

  


Jim sits sideways in a booth at a bar (he doesn’t even want to _think_ about the hell he’s going to pay when he checks into the bar he works at), his PADD pressed against his propped up knees and a beer perspiring on the table. He stares at the news bulletins scrolling across his screen – war on alien planets, espionage of corrupt governments, celebrity drama, the same as four months ago.

Jim hasn't missed a thing. He brings his beer to his lips with a muffled sigh, mixed parts relieved and sad that despite his absence, nothing has changed.

He thumbs the bulletins away, staring at his home screen, notifications blinking rapidly at him. Jim clicks the screen off, scooting farther back in the booth, resting his back against the wall.

Spock's words float back to him without his bidding; he's angry, dammit, because Spock legitimately seemed invested in the quality of Jim’s future and wants to help him get the most out of his life as he can. He even _said_ so. But Jim doesn't want Starfleet. He doesn't want the ranks and the obligations and the stiff-collared jokes who know nothing of life as Jim knows it.

He can't imagine living for anyone but himself. That's all he's done for the last decade. He can barely keep himself alive; how would he be expected to keep an entire ship alive as well?

_It's crazy_ , he thinks as he orders another beer. _I could never do it._

 

Jim stares at the steps to the entrance of Starfleet Academy as if they could actually give him syphilis.

(they could because who knows what even happens on those things.)

He fidgets with his jacket, rearranges his shades. Runs his hand through his hair. Students file past him, glancing at him curiously. He resists the urge to flip them off and run out of there and go get drunk somewhere (arguably for the second time that day).

Finally he decides that this doesn't really mean defeat and that he can leave whenever he wants to. Jim marches inside.

After fifteen minutes, he admits (a different kind of) defeat and consults a student to find Spock's classroom. He stands in front of the classroom and stares at the handle for a minute, half tempted (okay 78%) to just leave before anything bad actually happens. But Jim Kirk is anything but a coward, so he savagely twists the handle and falls into the room, face more than a little red (from anger dammit).

Spock sits at his desk, eyebrows raised in actual surprise before he stands abruptly, his pen and paper forgotten.

“I got lost finding your classroom,” Jim says as a greeting.

Spock blinks at him. “My room is directly to the left of the front entrance; how could you have possibly missed it?”

His anger spikes and mixes with embarrassment. “Maybe I'm just not cut out for this then. I should go.” He twists, his hand still on the door and for a moment he thinks he'll do it, he'll actually leave, but Spock makes a startled noise and that stops him for a second, which is all it takes for him to be reeled in by that monotonous voice.

“Don't leave when you are upset, Jim. Maybe I can be of assistance. You did come here of your own volition, so there must be something you wish to speak with me about.” Spock motions for Jim to take a seat at one of the desks in the front of the classroom, and he's not sure why, but he closes the door calmly and walks over. He sits on the edge precariously, crossing his arms. He doesn't feel like talking first, even though that would be the socially accepted response. He just stares at Spock's pointy ears with a strange sort of vengeance. Maybe he can make Spock feel as uncomfortable as Jim does in this moment.

Of course this is too much to ask. Spock just purses his lips. “This is about me asking you to join the Academy, correct?” Jim just grunts in response. “I do not understand why this upsets you so much. I simply asked what would be a logical next step from where you are now.”  
“And where am I now, Spock?” Jim grumbles, crossing his arms, unsure of the direction of the conversation. Jim feels like he’s an overflowing bottle of emotions and that he can do nothing but just sit here, spilling out in front of Spock. He tries reigning it in, but he feels open and raw and (maybe possibly) a little unhinged.

Spock looks baffled. “I assume that your absences from your place of employment has gone on for too long for you to still hold your position there. Perhaps it would be appropriate to start looking for other employment options?”

“Who says I don’t still have my job?” Jim questions half-heartedly; he knows that bridge has burned itself to the very ground, but it doesn’t stop him from vainly arguing with Spock. “Why would the Academy help at all?”

“Students have the option of working off student fees and earning some side money from jobs they supply,” he explains. “Besides the chance of employment, as I’ve said before, you could graduate a captain. What about that is not satisfactory?”

“Maybe that's not what I want,” Jim snaps, staring at his scuffed boots. “Maybe I just want to be Jim, not some goddamn fool charged with keeping dozens of people safe.”

Spock is quiet for a minute. Jim shifts, trying hard not to talk and make the situation even worse.

“You don't want to be your father,” Spock guesses (correctly goddammit).

Jim stiffens and that's all the answer Spock needs, all the reaction to connect the vague dots of Jim’s motives and desires into something he can coalesce into meaning. “You don't want to live in your father's shadow. You want your own legacy,” he murmurs, “even if that means dumping the rest of your life into some second-rate job.”

The blonde jerks into a rigid upright position and holds himself at his full height. He stares Spock straight in the eyes to disguise how scared he is that Spock can figure out his deepest secrets so easily. Because they barely make sense to him; how can Spock even _begin_ to comprehend the emotional turmoil Jim’s suffered for the last decade, let alone sum it up all in one fucking breath?

What does it say about Jim that he himself can’t even do that?

“So what if that’s what I plan on doing?” Jim mutters quietly, not really wanting Spock to hear, but his anger’s winning out against his judgement. He doesn’t like to talk about his dad; it makes his stomach boil and churn with unresolved angst. “I don't want to have people compare me to him even more than they already do. He's the hero. I know the damn story. I'm the disappointment. But jesus, thank fuck I don't have people expecting me to follow his damn footsteps anymore.” Jim remembers the days when he was called _promising_ and _prodigy_. He remembers being the favorite, briefly, before realizing how desperately he hated the responsibility and rules and suffocating requirements that went along with the title.

“You could create your own path in Starfleet. You could become the hero, if you wanted. Save lives. Explore uncharted space. Whatever you wanted. I know you could.” His words make Jim look up slowly, and Spock’s words are clipped and calm but his eyes shine nearly wild with emotions Jim can’t even name. It shocks him to the core. He looks almost frantic; did Jim do that, cause him almost as much emotional turmoil as he himself is feeling right now?

“No, I couldn’t. Didn’t you hear a damn word I’ve said, Spock? This _isn’t for me_. It never will be. So you should just _stop!_ ” Jim yells, waving his arms, his own fire fueled by Spock’s unexpected one.

Spock leans back and calmly stares over Jim’s shoulder, as if composing himself. He breathes deeply and the emotions get locked down, but the revelation that they even exist in the first place still slams into Jim like a freight train. His black eyes shift back to Jim’s. “The stars are meant for you, Jim. They call for you, just like they did for your father.” He visibly hesitates, as if getting ready to share a close-guarded secret. He continues anyway. “Like they do for me.”

They lock eyes for a tense moment. Jim wants to punch Spock, bloody that face into discomposure to match his own crashing feelings. He wants to read too much into what Spock’s saying, wants to reach and grab and take what he wants, the stars, Spock _himself_ , a future so bright and perfect it couldn’t possibly belong to him, the screw-up.

But he also wants to fuck him, right there, on that table. He wants to fuck that thought right out of Spock's mind, but more importantly, he wants to fuck it out of his own.

Because goddammit, the stars sound so good.

  


Jim goes home and showers. He feels as if he did have sex, with the sweat pooled at his temple and the base of his spine. He feels like he ran a marathon, which is true, sort of.

(talking to Spock can be as physically taxing as three miles uphill)

He stands under the spray (it's ice cold because even that's not cold enough to cool down his heated body) and stares at the tiles, sand-paper brown with flecks of gold in them.

But all he sees are distant stars and planets and various adventures to be had without him. He doesn't belong in the sky. That's where his father died; he doesn't need to jinx it. His life's jinxed enough without supplying death with the gun, too.

His life started in the stars, but it won’t end there. He can’t let it. Can barely even imagine it. Or he pretends not to. Because it’s better this way; he’s okay with staying here on earth, okay with working in crummy bars and driving off cliffs and nearly dying but never quite pushing far enough to do that. It’s what he’s always done, so why change everything now? Could he even change if he wanted to? Would he put down the helmet for good, for something so mind-blowing as what Spock’s been offering?

Doesn’t he want to, though? Why else would he go talk to the Vulcan today, if he didn’t know _exactly_ what he wants?

Jim turns his back on his quickly derailing train of thought and scrubs viciously at his stomach, trying to ignore how the soap suds align in constellations.

  


Uhura comes to visit him next.

Jim’s actually rather surprised that she’s not come to see him sooner; he almost thought she’d come before Bones, _definitely_ before Spock, but she’s last in the line of people trying to tell Jim how to run his life (and we all know how well that works out for those people).

Jim's not sure how often he thinks of her as a physically appealing person (okay about 87% of the time he's with her) but today she's striking. Her hair is down and curled. She’s wearing dark skinny jeans and a vibrant red silky shirt that makes her skin shine. She takes her coat off and lays it on the back of the sofa.

“I'm on my way to a date, so we're going to make this quick, okay?” She says, picking under her fingernails before piercing Jim with her gaze.

Jim’s not sure what to say, so he goes with nothing. He sits on the arm of his sofa, crossing his arms and staring up at her in front of him. Today his arm’s been bothering him more than usual. He should probably put it back in a sling, but _fuck that_ he doesn’t need to baby his arm anymore than he already is. Jim focuses back on Uhura before she can snap at him for not paying attention.

“Spock's worried about you,” she says bluntly, her one eyebrow doing that _thing_ Bones does a lot; she’s gotten really good (too good) at mimicking his annoying expressions. “He won't say it, and I know he's pestering you and you're annoyed. But you have to get over it. He wants what's best for you. I mean, we all do. You were in a coma for four _months_. It worries people. You had me worried.” Her facial expressions soften, and Jim's suddenly sure that whoever she's meeting up with today will be wowed by her sharp wit and softened by her stunning beauty, just the way he is now, just the way he’s always been with her. “The Academy can help, even though you don’t want it to. Besides, what else will you do? Work in that crummy bar for the rest of your life? That is _not_ the legacy I want to tell my kids when you're gone. They deserve better than that, and you know it, too.”

Jim can barely process what she’s saying, let alone answer. He can’t think of a single intelligent thing to say, so (again) nothing comes out of his mouth. He’s left gaping like a fish in the face of composure (and why does that sound so damn familiar).

She cross her arms and huffs at him, but not in a disappointed or even frustrated manner. Uhura takes a step closer and wraps Jim in her arms, her strong grip shocking him enough to remember to reciprocate the hug. His eyes close and he relaxes into her embrace. She gives damn good hugs. “We were so worried, Jim,” she whispers into his hair. “We were _so_ worried that you wouldn’t wake up this time. That you’d finally pushed it too far. But it’s really time, okay? To let go of whatever twisted logic you’ve been following for the past decade.” Her grip tightens even more and Jim almost wants to remind her to be _gentle_ , but he doesn’t want to interrupt her flow. “You’re important. You are _important_ and we _need_ you. So much. Maybe more than you even know.” She leans back to study his expression. “Definitely more than you know.”

Uhura releases him, gives him a broken little smile, her eyes shining a little. She turns and grabs her coat before taking a moment to dab under her eyes lightly. She walks towards the door. “See you later, Jim.” Then she’s gone, as quick as she appeared.

“See you,” Jim says too late, almost like a twisted little promise only meant to remind him that while he fears death with every fiber of his shattered soul, his _friends_ (god that word never gets old) fear _his_ death even more.

Another revelation that rocks him through his core.

It takes him a good hour and fifteen minutes to realize that despite how brusque Uhura seemed at first and how she even brought her unborn children into the whole matter, she really wasn’t even talking about them. That wasn’t what she meant at all. She meant _you deserve better than that_. That _Jim_ deserves _better_.

And that. That’s important. Because (maybe) it’s time to start listening to everyone else.

  


Uhura came by on Friday. Jim mulls over his thoughts until Monday rolls around and he decides to act like an adult (big shocker there) and address the last remaining blip on his radar.

The owner of the bar is mad. _Super_ mad because _Jim is a fucking asshole dickwad who does he think he is some goddamned queen of fucking douchebag-land?_ But then he’s surprised when Jim stutters through an explanation of what happened and why he was gone for four months, and even more shocked when Jim tells him he's quitting and that he'd like his last and final paycheck, please, if he doesn't mind (he really hopes he doesn’t fucking mind because he needs that cash).

As the owner's shuffling through the money, Jim looks around. The place really _is_ as seedy as his friends kept trying to tell him. He's surprised he never noticed before. He's only ever paid any attention to the drinks to mix, the spills to clean up, the drunkards to throw out. The atmosphere at two in the afternoon hurts so much that Jim puts his sunglasses on, as if a shield could prevent this level of sad desperation from sinking into his skin and following him to where he's about to go.

He doesn't need any extra bad luck right now.

(not like he ever _does_ need it but right now he _really doesn’t fucking need it_ )

Spock sits at his desk, grading papers or something (what do teachers even do when they don’t teach?), when Jim walks in, much calmer than the other day. He finishes scribbling on the paper in front of him before he even glances up (because Spock’s an asshole when he wants to be). Jim suddenly feels like he's being thrown to the wolves.

“You were right,” Jim says, stomach clenching at the admission with no preamble because Jim’s just _like_ that, and he’s only just realized he’s always been like this, this determined and foolhardy about all the wrong things (but maybe finally some of the right things). “I want the adventure, I want to explore. I want to travel and maybe save some lives.” Spock's eyebrows raise an eighth of an inch, lips opening just barely. Before he can say anything, Jim raises his hand. “I swear to god, if you say 'I told you so' I will walk out of here right now and steal a motorcycle and ride off into oblivion.”

“I do not doubt that...cadet Kirk.” Spock honest-to-god smiles at Jim. _What a waste_ , Jim thinks in awe, _to turn that smile on me_.

“Not even enrolled yet and you're calling me that?” Jim grins as he swaggers over, shifting his hips so he can lean against the table, totally crinkling all of Spock’s papers and not giving a damn about that at all.

“Perhaps I was just trying to get used to the idea of you being a student,” Spock quips, not making any effort to shift away from him. Jim takes it as a good sign, and presses again.

“Do I get to choose who works with me when I make captain and have my very own fancy-ass ship?” he asks.

“If you are persistent, yes, I suppose you can influence who serves with you,” Spock replies slowly, almost suspiciously. Does he really _not_ know what Jim’s going to ask?

“Are you gonna come with me?” Jim leans in closer, one hand raising to trace Spock’s pressed collar, watching Spock stiffen before he allows a small shiver to run down his back. That small defeat right there sends a thrill into Jim’s heart, which thunders in his ears. He needs to stop grinning so hard. Like now. “You gonna make me beg?”

Instead of answering, Spock shifts closer and presses a kiss to Jim’s forehead, making the shorter man’s jaw drop. Spock leans back and taps Jim on the cheekbone, promising something else, unrelated to the actual question at hand, but he doesn’t give a damn again because the (almost) admission of feelings nearly makes Jim burst. “Vulcans do not lie,” he murmurs deliberately, “so I will follow you into the stars.”

  


The weird part is, he does get a motorcycle (although this one isn't stolen). He does ride it, just not as much anymore, not as much as he expected he might need to. He still loves the leather (this leather not quite so chapped but still just this side of supple and goddamn Jim might drool at what a nice bike it is) vibrating against his legs and the reflex twist of his wrist that guns the engine and shoots him faster down the road. It’s all the same, even though everything’s changed.

The heat against his back is new, however, though the opposite of unwanted. Jim bites off a smile and leans against the wind whipping against his clothes.

The last two and a half years weren’t as easy a ride as the one he’s on right now. He nearly quit the Academy three times for varying levels of intolerable conditions (that second time he swears to god _he was not drunk_ but just fed up with the sprinkler system and the absolutely uncanny way it would turn on during late night treks back to his apartment after fucking Spock in his own fancier place).

But Jim got through the trials (and believe him there were _quite a few_ of those) and received his diploma with its fancy awards that Jim hasn’t ever understood past the fact that whatever they say, they allow him to captain his own ship right out of school and _goddammit_ , that means Spock was right, doesn’t it? He hates (loves) when that happens.

They set off tomorrow; off to oblivion, to the stars, to planets known and unknown, with their friends following ever faithfully behind, as they've always ever done with Jim. To explore. To discover new worlds. To maybe save a few lives. Jim takes a savage turn, the bike tilting precariously to the right, nearly enough to make the whole thing tip over, but Jim knows bikes, and this one can take much more than he's putting out. But it is sort of refreshing to feel the hands, which were already clutching at his midsection, tighten their grasp on his jacket. He peeks over his shoulder, his black helmet just a tad too big for Spock's leaner head. He wishes he could see his eyes, but he'd rather not experiment with Spock still so new at this, at trusting Jim with his life, not to mention Jim's own life that he's nearly taken a couple of times (okay maybe a few more than a couple times) due to the very thing going 80 miles an hour down the desert stretch.

Jim's new to this whole “sharing” thing as well; rides that are hard and fast are usually meant to clear his mind. He's never taken anyone with him before. He feels itchy, like maybe this could of ended badly, but somehow Spock knew exactly what to do when Jim drove up to his apartment, helmet in hand and sunglasses on, asking _do you trust me?_

He said _I do_ , and pulled Jim into a chapped kiss that was just this side of perfect in the afternoon sun. Those words, reminiscent of what Jim wants for them in the future (maybe someday), tugged on Jim’s stomach hard, nearly to the point of nausea.

(but really the best kind of sick because he’s always been the sentimental freak and everything Spock does just makes it worse)

Jim turns back around before Spock can see his earth-shattering smile because he doesn't need to know how deep this love goes right now. He doesn't need to be overwhelmed by how deeply Jim feels everything, although maybe he already knows that. Maybe he doesn’t need to worry so much. But if Jim wants anything at all, he wants this to be perfect. The one area of his life he doesn’t want jaded or fucked: just clear and sweet and slow.

Soon. Among the stars, maybe, Jim will tell Spock he loves him. And maybe that's all he needs – his friends surrounding him, a comforting hand on his back, and the room of the entire galaxy in front of him. Maybe _that's_  (finally) enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, and kudos or comments are always appreciated!


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